


What do you want, then?

by thorthelizardgod



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Biting, Bloodplay, Cheating, F/M, Facial Shaving, Hair-pulling, I hope this fic is tasty I want to feed yall well, Knifeplay, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Size Difference, ambiguous past events make things weird, there IS a lot of making out and necking tho so yay, theres only a few sentences of actual dick touching so if yr here for that... im so sorry, wound licking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 15:39:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19276303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thorthelizardgod/pseuds/thorthelizardgod
Summary: Emotions and odd feelings aside, shaving your hunting partner makes you get close. Very close.Especially when your partner is almost twice your size and you have to use a throwing knife to shave his face proper.





	What do you want, then?

The front door to Gascoigne’s house opened slowly, far past a reasonable hour, the way it did at least five times a week. And always, without fail, Gascoigne would enter with Henryk following suit, the way they did at least five times a week after hunts.

“‘M surprised you aren’t sick of coming here yet. You might as well be living here.” Gascoigne turned to face Henryk, speaking slowly, and Henryk didn’t say much in response- just muttered “You like it better when I’m your guest.”

Fatigue dripped from both of their voices- hunting beasts was never exhausting in the moment, between the blood and sweat and adrenaline, but the exhaustion that always snuck up after hunts was unavoidable. It was a beast in its own right, preying on hunters, sinking its claws into them and dragging them down when they had been lulled into a false sense of safety. 

It was a sort of tradition for Henryk- for _both_ of them- to go to one or the other’s house after a long hunt. As long as it meant Henryk could be closer to Gascoigne he would do it unless asked to not stay over; In all their years of hunting together, all their years of going back to one or the other’s house, Henryk hadn’t been asked to go home on his own at all. Not when he was covered in beast innards, not when he was panicking and shaking after particularly awful hunts, and not even when a leg injury of his managed to open further and spill blood on the floor in the ten paces it took to get from the mudroom to the nearest couch, making a mess of the carpet. 

Between not having to walk home when he was already bone-tired and getting to spend more time with his partner, Henryk found that spending more time with Gascoigne was what meant more to him. He didn’t like having too much distance between them; he always worried about Gascoigne, always cared too much, and never got over those mid-hunt dalliances they’d had before Gascoigne got married and had children. 

A part of Henryk hated himself for holding on. It wasn’t healthy to hold on.

He crouched down to undo the first few laces of his boots, not wanting to get muck and blood on the floor or the couch where he usually slept, and noticed that something seemed off- between how tired he was and not wanting to bother Gascoigne, he shook off the feeling that something was missing and went on with removing his boots. Post-hunt nerves, he reasoned, were the reason he felt like something was off. 

Both boots off and against the wall in the foyer, Henryk tried to stand, but in the minute it took to kick off his boots exhaustion had crept into his legs- getting them to move seemed impossible, and his old age didn’t help either. Gascoigne was still next to him, preoccupied with kicking off his shoes as well, and without thinking Henryk grabbed Gascoigne’s shawl and began to hoist himself up.

It worked, but he caught Gascoigne off guard. The larger hunter’s hand shot out against the wall so he didn’t fall over, while his other hand grabbed Henryk’s wrist and lifted him up and towards him. Gascoigne was leaning over Henryk, much closer now, still holding his wrist and breathing quickly from surprise. 

“At _least_ give me a warning before you do that.”

Gascoigne’s voice was still quiet, still low and rumbly, but with a hint of irritation. He smelled like a beast- it was usually faint, but it was more prominent now, meaty and putrid and rotten in Henryk’s nostrils. It always was after hunts, and Henryk hated it. Their faces were closer, and all Henryk did in response was look at Gascoigne’s wraps, where he could see the layers of bandages covering his partner’s eyes, off-white with bits of blood and viscera dotting the fabric like stars, before responding with little more than “Alright. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Henryk was expecting some kind of retort, but instead Gascoigne just let go of his wrist and went on with his business. Henryk was slightly disappointed- there used to be a formula to how these things would work out. Snarky comebacks leading to an argument, leading to getting in each other’s face, leading to someone grabbing someone’s collar or shoving them against something, leading to a bout of fervent kissing, and going onwards from there…

But that wasn’t going to happen, not here, not now. Gascoigne continued to take off the outermost layers of his hunting attire. Henryk watched him for a moment, hoping for Gascoigne to say something back, eyes flickering over his arms and the slope of his back as Gascoigne hung his coat on one of the clothing hooks fastened into the wall. It was obvious their conversation was over, and Henryk resigned to taking off his coat as well, putting it next to Gascoigne’s attire, savoring the warmth from his partner’s garbs when a bare patch of his arm brushed against them.

From that point onwards it was routine, like clockwork, the same way it usually went at least five times a week. Henryk didn’t waste any more time getting the minimal amount of his attire off- gloves, hat, small things with bits of gore and blood were tossed to the side to be scooped up in the morning or whenever he’d leave. He didn’t care about tidying up and neither did Gascoigne. They were both too tired to care, and Henryk’s main goal was getting to the couch he usually slept on as quickly as possible so he could sleep.

Henryk hardly noticed Gascoigne following suit as he collapsed onto the couch- it was normal, after all, just another part of their routine. The stairs were in the same room as “Henryk’s” couch and Gascoigne’s bedroom was on the second floor. Henryk had settled in, eyes heavy, arms heavy, legs and body heavy, not reacting to the high-pitched wooden complaints of the stairs creaking under his partner’s weight.

“Don’t you get tired of sleeping there?” 

That wasn’t what Henryk expected- he lifted himself up enough to look over the back of the couch, seeing that Gascoigne was halfway up the stairs and leaning heavily on the railing. Gascoigne, talking to him instead of just going to sleep like he usually did. The thought made Henryk’s chest hurt.

“It’s comfortable enough.”

“There’s other beds, you know. Definitely more comfortable than that old couch. Warmer, too.”

_Other beds_ and _warmer_. Those words stuck out too much, and as tempting as an actual bed seemed at the moment, Henryk didn’t trust himself to stay out of Gascoigne’s room, didn’t trust himself to not try and slip into bed with Gascoigne and _absolutely_ didn’t trust himself to keep his hands to himself. At least sleeping downstairs meant there was more distance between them. Then it wasn’t so tempting.

“I don’t want a bed.” 

He had to force himself to not add _unless it’s yours_ to the end of his reply.

Henryk could have sworn Gascoigne looked crestfallen at his reply- that just made it sting a bit when, instead of insisting for Henryk to sleep upstairs, Gascoigne just gave him the most disappointing reply he’d heard in a while

“If that pleases you. I’m off to bed. G’night.” 

_If that pleases you_ was paired with a shrug. It surprised Henryk how much a simple gesture bothered him- a rise and fall of the shoulders. Henryk didn’t even bother to look at the back of Gascoigne’s head as he made the last few steps up to the second floor. It was easier for him to just lay back down and go through the usual routine of musing over small things and annoyances before he finally slept.

To Henryk the only good thing to come out of Gascoigne getting married was the house he found himself in most nights. not that Gascoigne’s previous living arrangements were bad, since Henryk appreciated the privacy, just the two of them, but there was hardly enough space for more than one person to sleep there comfortably. It wasn’t uncommon for Henryk to sleep on the floor or share a bed with his hunting partner when it was cold, with the latter sleeping arrangement leading to stupid decisions when they were both pent up and too nervous from hunting to sleep. It was enjoyable but cramped. For some reason, Gascoigne never got a larger bed in spite of Henryk’s complaints that there was never enough room for both of them to be comfortable. They never fought about it- just small conversations the morning after, when Henryk would inevitably wake up half an inch from being shoved out of bed and falling onto the floor. 

“Why don’t you get a larger bed if we’re to share it so often? Are you really so miserly? Are you _really_ so eager to be touching me all night?”

It was a lot compared to how little he usually spoke. Henryk had said that as a joke- it wasn’t really a joke, since he knew better, knew that Gascoigne just craved to touch and be touched by him in blood-addled fervor that would possess them after hunts. He remembered Gascoigne’s entire demeanor changing after he said that. His face getting flushed, looking at anything but Henryk, muttering “maybe I _do_ want that…”

Hearing that, remembering how shy and embarrassed Gascoigne sounded, and remembering how Henryk promised himself he’d never complain about it again. 

It was almost too much to bear. 

But that was all gone, now- the bed that was barely big enough for both of them was gone, Gascoigne’s tiny living space was gone, everything that Gascoigne had only shared with Henryk was gone after he’d gotten married to Viola. Not that it was all bad- it was nice to have somewhere to put their coats, and the occasions where Viola had somehow gotten up early enough to make them breakfast were pleasant. It was nice to have a whole couch to himself rather than the floor, but he still missed having a warm body next to him; Gascoigne was like a furnace, and cuddling up next to him in the middle of winter or on a cold morning was nothing short of comforting. 

Was it too late to ask for an actual bed to sleep on? Probably. Viola hadn’t greeted them when they came inside, but that was normal considering how late hunts went. Henryk always took Viola’s absence as a sort of blessing as well as a signal- more time he could spend with Gascoigne with no one else around, but also a sign to be quiet so they didn’t wake Viola or the girls, and to sleep as soon as they could, since it was far too late to be awake, and losing sleep to talk to your hunting partner was foolish…

It was frustrating. The time he had alone with Gascoigne, without fear of getting mauled by beasts, worth more than anything to him and as precious as a jewel, was limited; The time he had with Gascoigne while his wife was around was much more abundant, not nearly as precious to Henryk, painful and dreaded as he’d watch Viola practically throw herself into his partner’s arms.

Watching _that_ was too much to bear. The entire time he’d watch Viola kiss her husband, see how tightly Gascoigne held her, watch her bury her face into his chest while crying, half-relieved and half-terrified. And every time, without fail, Henryk would wish that he was Viola, able to hold and be held and be able to show his affection or gratefulness that they were alive, not mauled or reduced to a barely-recognizable mess of bones and bits of flesh, gnawed at by beasts, but _alive_ and still in one piece. 

Ugh. Awful. The more Henryk thought about it, the more bitter he got, the more guilty he felt that he still had feelings for his partner in spite of Gascoigne being married- with _children_ , no less. Physical proof that Henryk had missed his chance, but _God_ , he held onto the hope that Gascoigne would come to his senses and choose the man who had saved his life on multiple occasions over Viola. 

_Hunt beasts with the man you love, save his life, let him explore every inch of you, let him hold you down and do what he pleases with you, make sure to say ‘I love you’ whenever you split up during a hunt since you’re not entirely sure whether you’ll find him alive or dead by the end of the night, find out that you can’t get a full night of sleep unless you’re in his bed with him, feel like you’d recognize him no matter what even if you were blind or deaf or numb, worry yourself sick when he’s gone for a day longer than he said he would be since you assume the worst and think something awful has happened and you could’ve prevented it, he takes what you offer of yourself and you take what he offers of himself…_

_And he marries some girl instead of you._

It was unfair. It was impossible to sleep when he was this upset over something he was probably overthinking. Gascoigne was happy with Viola; that was what mattered, right? That Gascoigne was happy? That he had someone to come home to and stay alive for?

_He stays alive for you_ , Henryk told himself. More stupid things to overthink and lose sleep over in a fit of regret. What time was it? Too late to be up pining over something that had already happened. He’d done it to himself, after all- it was _his_ fault, somehow, he was sure of it even though he didn’t know _how_ or _why_.

Frustrated, pent up, mad at himself and very much in love, Henryk finally rolled onto his other side so he could sleep. 

\----------------

Waking up on his own terms was rare. Oftentimes it was Gascoigne who woke him up; not on purpose, of course, it was just that Gascoigne made enough noise going down the stairs to wake the beasts in Old Yharnam. Henryk sat up- what time was it? Did he wake up before Gascoigne for once? No, that wasn’t possible; Henryk always slept longer than Gascoigne after hunts. There was no use in lying back down. He wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, so he decided to see if anyone else was even awake. If not, he’d just grab his things and leave.

No signs of life or any activity in the kitchen was enough evidence that no one else had gotten up. No pans or plates in the sink or on the stove, no scent from anything that might have been cooking. So why did Henryk still feel like something was off? Ever since last night he’d felt wrong, a sense of unease like a dulled hidden sense telling him something awful or unknown was happening. Maybe it was because he felt like an interloper, searching his partner’s home like this; a petty thief looking for something with any sort of value to snatch and run off with.

Still no signs of Viola or the girls. If Viola wasn’t awake with the girls, it was too early for her husband and his hunting partner to be up. He’d only been looking around for a few minutes, but he’d expected to hear some sort of greeting by then. “Good morning,” and “did you sleep well?” were the usual singsong phrases he’d hear first thing in the morning, with Viola’s voice tired yet drippingly sweet, and the girls always running up to him and hugging their “grandpa’s” legs. A warm thought, framed in reds and dark oranges and pinpricks of yellow.

But the girls weren’t awake, and neither was Viola, and _definitely_ not Gascoigne. Slipping back to the foyer to grab his boots and things was somewhat relieving to Henryk. He didn’t have to get in the way or bother anyone with his presence, here in his partner’s foyer, picking up his boots before noticing what made him feel off ever since he walked in the house last night. 

The spot where Viola’s shoes were usually kept was empty. So was the spot where Gascoigne’s daughters would keep their shoes. A tiny void against the wall that made everything fall into place: Viola not greeting them last night. Breakfast not being made. The girls not waking him up, dressed in their cute frocks, ready to ask him a seemingly unending list of questions while they bounced from one foot to the other. Had Viola taken the girls out shopping? Were they away seeing relatives? Or maybe they had left Yharnam for the weekend? Whatever the case, they weren’t there, and the two hunting partners had probably been alone together since they set foot inside last night.

Gascoigne was usually quiet if Viola was asleep when they came back from hunts- she needed her sleep after dealing with the girls all day, and Gascoigne would rarely raise his voice above a whisper. He’d been louder than usual last night, and went upstairs with no regard for how much noise he was making; he’d done the exact opposite of what someone would do if they were trying to _not_ wake someone up. 

Another thought hit Henryk. Maybe Gascoigne was awake, but nothing proved or disproved that, since everything seemed to be in the same place it had been. Maybe Gascoigne had left to get something for them to eat, but a quick glance over at his shoes, unmoved from where they had been placed last night by rough hands, disproved that rather quickly. 

Looking around for a few more minutes couldn't hurt.

Henryk stood up, started to leave, looked back, and hesitated. Stared at the empty space. This would mean nothing to anyone else, but he picked up his boots and put them where Viola’s shoes would usually be, with all the gentleness of someone trying not to disturb a sleeping beast, as if placing them down too roughly would kickstart the beginning of the end of the world. There wasn’t even a reason to be sneaky, since no one was around to notice, and even if there was they _certainly_ wouldn’t understand why he was doing this. The whole thing felt wrong- as if he’d done something awful or swallowed a bottle of pills, staring down at his boots, but nothing happened. They just sat there against the wall, making the empty space not as blatant as it was before.

Back to looking for Gascoigne. Henryk felt like an intruder before, snooping around, but now he felt even worse; a strong gut-feeling of _this isn’t right_ and _you should probably go now. Don’t overstay your welcome_. He’d checked everywhere except upstairs. Out of all the times he had been to Gascoigne’s house, he could count the times he’d been upstairs on one hand, and he didn’t even remember _why_ he’d went up there, but that part of the house was where Henryk had barred himself from unless it was absolutely necessary. 

Going upstairs was definitely _not_ what he’d do normally. But the day hadn’t been normal, had it? 

_You’re checking on Gascoigne_ , he told himself, _you’re making sure he’s alright because you care about him. That’s all. And if you don’t see hide or hair of him then you can go home, and never think of this again._

He repeated that like a mantra- _making sure he’s alright_ \- and left out _because you care about him_. Wasn’t it a basic human trait to care for others? To make sure they weren’t in pain? More things to muse about in the twelve or so steps it took to reach the second floor, taking care not to tread too heavily or make too much noise, just in case Gascoigne was still sleeping. 

A turn to the left at the top of stairs, and he was looking down a hallway. The first door on the left was the girls’ room, and at the very end of the hall, on the right, was Gascoigne’s bedroom. Not _just_ Gascoigne’s room, of course- but Henryk had forgotten about Viola; she wasn’t there, after all, so in Henryk’s mind she didn’t exist and had no connection to Gascoigne until she returned home with the girls. His steps were still as light as he could make them, slow and deliberate, as if he were out on a hunt and trying not to get noticed as he counted the steps it took to reach the door at the end of the hall. 

Why was he even counting the steps? So he knew how far he would have to run to get out the front door if he bothered Gascoigne or woke him up? It was a stupid thing to take note of, but twenty-two paces from the top of the stairs, Henryk was standing there with his hand on the doorknob, hesitating. 

He wasn't sure why he was so hesitant- he feared explaining himself, feared explaining why he was sneaking around like a petty thief, feared waking up Gascoigne and feared something else that he felt deep in his guts. He craved being alone with Gascoigne constantly, and here he was, a turn of a knob and a shove of a door away from getting what he wanted, but he still hesitated like a fool. 

Going upstairs wasn’t normal. Viola being away with the girls wasn’t normal. Intruding into his hunting partner’s bedroom _certainly_ wasn’t normal.

There was no more point in being safe and sticking to the norm anymore.

The metal of the doorknob felt slick and cold in Henryk’s grip as he opened the door. No signs of Gascoigne apart from the bed being disheveled, so he _was_ awake, but apart from that there was nothing. One step into the room, then another, with Henryk looking about all the while. Passing through the doorway felt liberating, a relief from something, a loss of feeling like a criminal. A number of paces from the top of the stairs, now, and his anxiety was starting to fade away.

“...Gascoigne..?”

Henryk’s voice was barely louder than his normal speaking voice. He hadn’t called out his partner’s name before, not wanting to disturb the man’s sleep or wake anyone else up, but he knew Gascoigne was awake- not in his bedroom, but definitely somewhere upstairs, and Henryk was determined to have some time alone with him, nervousness be damned.

He was getting ready to call his partner’s name again, only to stop himself when he heard a distant knocking, as if someone was rapping on the wall on the far side of the room. A door, on the far left corner- how did he miss it? Wasn’t he usually observant enough to notice something so obvious? 

No hesitation this time, it was only a matter of paces before Henryk was opening the door, suddenly faced with Gascoigne hunched over the wash basin that was far too small for him- but for a man of his size, everything seemed too small. He was shirtless, Henryk noticed, but still had his hunting trousers on; Gascoigne had probably been too exhausted to take them off last night. 

“You were calling for me?”

Ah- so he _had_ heard Henryk call for him. 

“Yes. Just wondering where you were.”

“Hm. Are you hungry? Sorry there's nothing hot, I can't cook to save my arse. You want some apples? It isn't much, but I know how much you love them, so I got you some. Down in the kitchen if you want ‘em.”

Gascoigne remembered that apples were his favorite fruit? Henryk vaguely remembered telling Gascoigne, but that was a while ago. Still, the small gesture of affection made his chest warm, as if his ribs were trying to stop him from freezing to death. 

Why had Gascoigne been so eager to mention that? Maybe it was it a way to say _see, I remember, I still know what makes you happy and I want to see you be happy when we’re alone. That’s all I want._

Or was Gascoigne just trying to get him to go downstairs and leave him alone? Did he just not want Henryk to be around? Another sensation built up in Henryk’s chest- bitter and ugly, a dull ache that came with overthinking every damn thing Gascoigne did or said to him.

“I’m not hungry,” he replied, sounding a bit more harsh than he wanted to be.

“Alright, then. Feel free to take a few home when you leave, if you’d like.”

They sat there in silence for a few moments, and Henryk suddenly realized that Gascoigne hadn’t bothered to look at him more than once during their exchange. He was too preoccupied, busying himself with something Henryk couldn’t quite figure out until he noticed a straight razor on the edge of the counter. 

“Due for a shave?” Henryk inquired. 

“Yeah,” Gascoigne muttered “Just to clean up my face a bit. Not much.”

Stubble had become visible around his usual facial hair. Not a lot, but still a bit distracting and slightly scruffy- Gascoigne was scruffy, but in a neat and attractive way, unlike the unkempt, filthy Yharnamites that plagued hunts. Henryk adored that about him; Just another thing Gascoigne offered that he couldn’t find anywhere in Yharnam or Loran or anywhere else, it seemed. 

There was a sudden compulsion to touch something, to break up the awkwardness of pauses in their small talk by occupying himself with something, anything, and his eyes fell to the straight razor again. Henryk picked it up and ran his fingers over it- closed, smooth with a lovely handle made of some material he couldn’t figure out- bone or tortoiseshell? There were engravings on it, too, rough contrast from the rest of the handle under Henryk’s fingertips. It wasn’t ornate, not even close when compared to more expensive ones, but it wasn’t cheap, either. 

Henryk was grasped with the desire- no, _need_ \- to see the blade, feel how sharp it was, the weight of it in his hands that were used to light and deadly throwing knives- he _had_ to feel the metal of this simple razor for some unknown reason. He flicked it open, feeling how balanced it was from the pivot point, savoring the glint of the blade, a lovely silverish steel that was cold to the touch, running a thumb over the edge and-

It was dull. Far too dull to be used.

“Do you have a strop?”

Perhaps he could sharpen it a bit- tedious work, but he’d do it for his partner.

“No.”

Well, that settled that.

“I’m not letting you use this. You’ll be here all day.”

“Like hell you are.” A practically snarled reply. Oh, now Gascoigne was irritated- just wanting to get the whole thing over with and go on with his day.

“You’ll cut yourself if it’s dull-”

“I don’t care, Henryk. Give it back. _Now_.”

Gascoigne glaring daggers at him and snarling orders should _not_ have made his heart beat faster or fill him with heat, Henryk told himself, pocketing the razor. If Gascoigne wanted it back, he’d have to grab Henryk and wrest it from him- an exciting thought, an excuse to have his partner touch him, and an easy way to keep it away from Gascoigne.

“ _Henryk…_ ”

 

“I’ll be back.” And with that, he slunk out of the room before Gascoigne could protest further.

\------------------

Twenty-something paces down the stairs, and twenty-something paces back up to his partner’s bathroom, Henryk came back with a chair from the kitchen. He originally put it between him and Gascoigne, in the center of the room, only to realize it left little room for movement and placed it next to the wash basin and against the wall instead. 

He stepped back, faced his hunting partner, gestured to the chair before saying “ _Sit,_ ” in a tone that was somewhere between a command and a request.

“I’m not a hound, you don’t ‘ave to order me about,” Gascoigne spat out, but even as he groused he brushed past Henryk before sitting. The chair creaked under his weight, and Henryk realized how _huge_ his partner was- years of hunting together had made him used to it, but Gascoigne still loomed over Henryk even if he was sitting. It wasn’t just his height, either; it was bulk, it was muscle, it was the look and attitude he carried with him, imposing and just plain intimidating. 

Henryk felt like he was realizing everything about his partner all over again- when did Gascoigne get that bite mark on his chest? Those indented, blatant scars that decorated his torso? Did he always have that slight layer of fat over his muscles, adding to his bulk, making him warmer and just a bit softer when he was held? 

Henryk felt like he was falling in love with his partner again, and he didn’t understand why. They were both men, they’d seen each other in states of undress and naked countless times, and yet here he was. Staring at Gascoigne, who sat there glowering, irritated and unaware of how desperately Henryk wanted him. 

“Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to do something? If you think I’m going to sit here all day, you’re wrong.”

Snapped out of his trance, Henryk remembered there were things to be done, and no amount of eyeing up his hunting partner would change that.

“Right- sorry, be patient for me, I’m- I-”

Face starting to flush, stammering like an idiot, wondering to himself _did he notice me staring? If he noticed he would have said something, right?_

“At least tell me what you’re planning on doing. Better yet, get it over with.” Gascoigne sounded less impatient and more bored at this point. 

“I’ll show you.” and with that, Henryk produced one of his throwing knives from his pocket, taking a few steps so he was in front of Gascoigne to better show him the blade. Gascoigne snorted.

“You really think that’s going to work?”

“Yes. Better than that old razor.”

“Oh? You sound awful sure of yourself. And why are you so certain of that, hm?” Henryk could hear him smirking- making smart remarks to annoy him was one of Gascoigne’s favorite things to do, whether it was out on a hunt or behind closed doors or even now, across from each other, one of them half-naked and the other fully clothed. 

It was humorous, but Henryk still felt a pang of anger at the remark. “I know it’s sharp. It’ll work. Watch.”

Was it sharp enough? He ran his thumb over the edge just to be sure- felt the resistance, the blade seeming to bite at his skin, and he knew it would be plenty sharp. There was a sting of regret, lamenting that he was about to ruin the carefully-sharpened blade, but it was alright; He had plenty more knives to use on hunts, and this was for Gascoigne. Having to sharpen a dull blade later was more than worth it. 

“Lean towards me.” Gascoigne complied, and they still weren’t quite at eye level. It could have worked, but it wouldn’t be easy, and holding his arms up so he could shave his exasperated hunting partner was _not_ something Henryk was going to put up with for long. The whole situation was really trying their patience. 

“Alright, just… lean back instead.” “Why? So you can just tell me to to lean forward again? I’ve had _enough_ , Henryk, whatever it is you want to do, just do it already. Do it or I swear I’ll-”

Henryk, finally fed up with Gascoigne’s attitude, did what he wanted to do. 

He stepped forward, initially grabbing Gascoigne’s hair and beginning to pull it before deciding to grab his face instead, holding him in a vice-like grip, calloused fingers feeling stubble on the edge of facial hair, tiny pinpricks that scraped at his skin. Rough against rough. Within the same moment, hardly a second afterwards, Henryk half-shoved half-slid himself onto Gascoigne and straddled his partner’s leg, getting as close to Gascoigne’s lap as he could possibly get, and made sure to sit up straight so he was above his partner for once, putting his knife a hair away from touching Gascoigne’s cheek. Here he was, over his hunting partner, one knee on each side of Gascoigne's massive thigh, close enough together to feel the body heat coming off of each other's skin but not quite touching chests. 

It happened quickly- Henryk was agile, fast and calculated, and all Gascoigne reacted with was surprise- a small noise and a jolt, his arms coming up a bit as the smaller of the two was suddenly holding a blade close to his skin. 

“ _Sit still_.” Henryk made sure his tone was stern with no room for argument, and Gascoigne wordlessly complied again. 

He considered asking if Gascoigne was ready- but Gascoigne had told him to just go ahead, right? Right. Henryk considered flipping the blade, so it would face the floor and nick his partner’s face less, but Gascoigne had been enough of a pain in the ass to warrant a few “accidental” cuts. It was easier if the blade faced the ceiling- easier to see, easier to get a good grip, and much easier to shave off scruff with a simple flick of the wrist.

Henryk leaned back, got comfortable, adjusted his grip on Gascoigne’s cheeks with his hand and gave him a hard look-over. 

“Lean back a bit. Just seeing where I have to shave you.”

A valid excuse to ogle his hunting partner- not just Gascoigne’s face, but his whole upper body, easy to see from Henryk’s perch in his lap as he tilted his partner’s head back in a not-so-gentle manner, feeling a jolt of low heat when Gascoigne made a noise as his head was jerked to where Henryk wanted it to be. Having some form of control over the man who could _easily_ crush his windpipe was thrilling, to say the least.

If he could have, Henryk would have sat there like that all day, all month, all year, as long as he possibly could, taking in every detail about Gascoigne, as if he was a sculptor, readying himself to capture his partner’s handsome likeness in marble. But they couldn’t stay like that, quiet except for their breathing, one at knifepoint and the other holding at knifepoint, on a chair in a room that was barely big enough for both of them, light from the window casting golden-white onto both of them.

There were things to be done, Henryk told himself, adjusting again so he could be a touch more comfortable and a touch closer to Gascoigne’s body. Putting the knife back to Gascoigne’s face, back against his cheek, and finally, with all the accuracy and caution of a surgeon, making the first flick of his wrist- a sharp, scraping sound, _shik shik_ as bits of stubble came off, barely visible unless caught in the light. Henryk hummed to himself as he worked along his partner’s face, surprised Gascoigne had managed to stay still this long without grumbling about how it was taking too long. Henryk tilted his partner’s face again, Gascoigne allowed it to happen again, and the _shik shik_ rang in both of their ears again. 

It all changed after that, though, since nothing good ever really lasted for Henryk-for either of them, in fact.

Henryk leaned in for a better look, and Gascoigne moved his head away, much to Henryk’s frustration- and of course, it lead to Henryk unintentionally nicking his partner’s face, a small cut on the cheek-not much, but it still bled.

“ _Careful!_ ” Gascoigne hissed, jerking away easily in spite of Henryk’s grip on him.

“I told you to sit still! Don’t move like that.” Henryk snapped back. 

“Fine. Fine. Just finish this side and get it over with, already.” 

Henryk huffed a bit, grabbed his partner’s face again, harder than last time, fingers digging into Gascoigne’s jaw until he was sure it hurt. Starting over again, leaning forward again, finishing the side of Gascoigne’s face he’d been working at before going to the other side. And of course, Gascoigne was difficult again, moving about and trying to get out of Henryk’s grip, leaning away when the smaller of the two would go in for a closer look. Why did he keep leaning away? More thoughts of _he doesn’t want me around anymore_ swam through Henryk’s head.

“M’neck’s killing me like this, Henryk-”

“Don’t speak. Or move. Don’t want to cut you again.” Henryk spoke quietly.

“If you don’t want me to-”

“Quiet.”

“-Move, why don’t you stop coming-”

“ _Quiet_.”

“-right up to my face?”

Henryk was beyond irritated, but he didn’t lean back or yell.

“I need to. To see.” he seethed. “Why did you think I was doing this?” 

Gascoigne was silent for a moment.

“No reason. Go on.”

Gascoigne was lying. It was so obvious, but Henryk pretended to accept it- Gascoigne had told worse lies before. The one time he lied about having apples to get Henryk to come visit him. The other time he lied about knowing where Henryk lived to cover the fact that he wasn’t paying attention to their conversation, so he didn’t look rude or bored, and he ended up at Henryk’s front door an hour late to dinner with a sheepish grin.

The one time he lied about Viola- Henryk didn’t remember it, didn’t _want_ to remember it, so he did his best to forget it, but he knew it involved Viola somehow. And he loathed it.

Suddenly Henryk’s mood was far worse than before.

He still went back to shaving his partner, a bit less careful but still careful, doing his best to not let the blade nick Gascoigne again. He ran a bare thumb over where he’d just shaved- smooth, a tad rough but a close shave nonetheless. He was almost done, just a few more spots to go, and he was thankful for it- as much as he liked being in Gascoigne’s lap, his back was starting to hurt, and between their body heat Henryk was far too hot to be comfortable. Gascoigne was so warm, especially with Henryk so close to his bare skin, like sitting near a furnace- if the bathroom was cold, this closeness would be welcome. But it wasn’t cold that morning, and the room was warm enough, and given how there was so little extra space it heated up quickly. Uncomfortable, but Henryk was almost done, he could deal with a few more minutes if it meant he could finish-

“Y’know why I thought you kept getting close-?”

Just his luck, on the last stroke, after plenty of silence and a false sense of “he finally shut up”, Gascoigne had to open his mouth. 

And got himself cut in the process.

Henryk had dealt with enough- he surged forward, grabbing Gascoigne’s hair and wrenching it back towards the wall, exposing his partner’s throat- rings of hard cartilage, Gascoigne’s trachea, protruding, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed nervously once he realized the position he was in, and that Henryk still held a wickedly-sharp blade in the hand that wasn’t fisted in his hair.

Of course he felt nervous, but the heat pooling low in his guts was _not_ a feeling he expected to get from this.

“I _told you._ ” Gascoigne’s hair was wrenched back further. 

“To _shut up._ ” Another yank.

“And _sit still._ ” Another hard pull, and Gascoigne felt like his scalp was about to ripped off his skull, and suddenly his pants started to feel a hint tighter.

Henryk tried to hide his glee when Gascoigne grunted from the pain. He didn’t get the chance to be completely in control of his hunting partner every day, and seeing Gascoigne so vulnerable, throat open and at Henryk’s mercy, almost asking to be abused or hit with the way he was breathing so heavily, so sweetly, full of panic. Henryk would get drunk on the sight if he could, poisoned, sent to his death by his hunting partner, shirtless, in a room too small for the both of them to share comfortably.

“I’m done now. Go on. Finish what you were saying.” Henryk demanded. Blood dripped from the cut that had preceded the situation they were in now; A small, red rivulet, the only speck of it in the whole room.

Gascoigne just sat there, didn’t answer, didn’t move, just sat there breathing like it would answer Henryk’s request for him.

He had planned on staying quiet, until he felt a cold blade press against his throat.

“ _Say it._ ”

Gascoigne swallowed again, and he felt his Adam’s apple scrape along the edge. 

“You kep-kept getting so close since you wanted to…”

Henryk pressed the blade in a bit more, felt Gascoigne tense up, stiffening as he felt it barely start to cut into his skin. Henryk had hardly put any pressure on it, just enough to cut a bit- enough to feel the sting, but not enough to make his partner bleed. Not yet, at least.

“I wanted to do _what_?”

“...Kiss me.”

Gascoigne sat there, seemed to relax as he watched Henryk’s expression soften a bit to something other than rage and irritation- surprise? Tenderness? Henryk began to pull back his blade by a hair…

But he didn’t take it away from his throat. Just dragged it down Gascoigne’s neck- felt it run over the ridges of his trachea, like small bumps in the road, down and then back up.

“Then why don’t you want me near you?” 

Gascoigne didn’t reply to that- he just looked confused at Henryk’s question.

 

“Why did you keep moving away from me?”

Henryk still hadn’t stopped moving his blade up and down Gascoigne’s throat, now in a rhythm, a faint scraping sound shared between the two of them.

“I-I don’t really… don’t quite know how to answer that…”

“Yes, you do. Stop lying.”

Henryk had stopped moving the blade, now, but it was perched at the very base of Gascoigne’s neck- the metal had warmed a bit from his body heat, but even without the shock-like feeling of frigid metal on his neck, far too open and exposed to be comfortable, it was still prominent against his skin. Henryk considered pressing it back into his partner’s neck; if prodding out a confession wouldn’t work, he’d wrestle him to the ground, split him open and wrench it out with his bare hands, maybe crashing their lips, their tongues, their faces, their bodies together- kissing Gascoigne while wrist-deep in his chest, groping for an answer that would satisfy him.

“I told you, _I can’t answer that._ ” 

Gascoigne was back to snarling, and Henryk was back to having no patience left.

“You think you can just brush me off without me noticing!? Try to get rid of me!? I come up here looking for you and ya tell me there’s something for me downstairs! Last night I thought you were going to insist I sleep upstairs! Closer to _you_!” A pause. A chance for Henryk to recollect himself, breathing heavily; he wasn’t used to speaking so much all at once. He recollected his thoughts, and remembered something that would definitely get some kind of answer out of Gascoigne.

“And when were you going to tell me about Viola!?” His partner winced a bit as Henryk spat that out- and Henryk was certain he had him caught. 

Which is why Gascoigne’s answer surprised him.

“I was going to tell you- she’s away. Visiting family. Took the girls since her family wants proof she’s found a husband, settled down, you know how it is.”

“And why aren’t you with her?”

Gascoigne snorted, a bitter and dry sound. “You think a family like her’s would approve of her husband being a lowly hunter? A _foreign_ hunter? I’m an embarrassment, it’s better I stay home. Then I can be with you mo-”

Gascoigne stopped himself, but Henryk had heard enough, and leaned in closer to see if his partner was serious- the look on his face was a sure sign he was.

They were so close, now, faces a matter of inches apart. Henryk caught the stench of beast in Gascoigne’s breath, much less prominent than it had been last night but still noticeable. He could see the inside of his partner’s mouth as he sat there, watching the larger man breathe heavily under him- pink tongue, pink gums around teeth that seemed sharper than before. The cuts from earlier still bled, barely starting to drip down Gascoigne's face before getting lost in his facial hair. 

“I really should ‘ave told ya last night. You seemed tired, though. Thought it would be better to let ya sleep.” Henryk sighed- he was a bit disappointed. More time he had missed to be alone with Gascoigne; even though he _was_ bone tired, he’d choose a few more hours with his partner over a few more hours of sleep.

“It’s fine…”

He released his grip on Gascoigne’s hair, but kept the knife to his throat as he moved his free hand down to Gascoigne’s chest and leaned in closer. Here he was, pressing a knife to his partner’s throat while sitting in his lap, and in the few minutes it had taken to get to where they were now Henryk had went from enamored to irritated to surprised and now, to top it all off, disappointed. 

 

“You thought I was going to kiss you?”

Back to being enamored, infatuated, craving the opportunity to be as close to Gascoigne as possible. 

“Yeah, just a dumb thought- I thought I’d get a bit of a laugh out of ya with it.”

Gascoigne laughed, nervously, and Henryk leaned in even closer- noses almost touching, eyes meeting for the first time in a while in a way that actually meant something- when was the last time Gascoigne had seen that look in his eyes? Henryk had always looked at Gascoigne like that, staring at him in the midst of a hunt or when Gascoigne had his back turned, and of course he’d never noticed; but this time was different- there wasn’t anything to distract him, and there was nowhere else to look. 

“I might’ve had that thought once or twice.”

Not even three seconds after uttering those words, Henryk leaned in further, closed the gap between their lips and didn’t pay attention the small voice in the back of his head saying _Gascoigne doesn’t like you anymore. It’s not worth it._

Henryk was fully expecting Gascoigne to pull away, out of disgust or embarrassment or surprise; His partner kissing him back was not what he had expected. The hand that had been on Gascoigne’s chest drifted upwards, soon found itself holding the side of his face, and Henryk could feel one of the nicks from earlier under his thumb. Four fingers in bristly, almost soft facial hair; Warm, almost tacky fluid under a fifth digit. Henryk pressed his thumb against the cut further, felt the area become more slick- the wound was small, but it still bled again with a bit of coercing.

 

He moved his thumb down from the cut, leaving a small trail of blood, pressing into Gascoigne further- he wanted to deepen the kiss, claim his partner’s mouth again, and he planned to do just that. Would Gascoigne want that, too? Henryk hoped so. He hoped he wasn’t the only one yearning to repeat the past, if only for a few moments. Henryk tested the waters, pulled back a bit and looked into his partner’s eyes before going back in, started to tease at Gascoigne’s lower lip with his tongue, feeling heat pool low in his guts and elation beyond measure when Gascoigne began to open his mouth in response…

Only for him to pull away, looking sheepish and unsure, much to Henryk’s disappointment.

“Henryk, I don’t- This is probably a bad idea.”

“Oh? Do tell, Gasc, why it would be such a bad idea?”

“You know why, Henryk, don’t act like a fool.”

Henryk didn’t reply- just stared at Gascoigne harder to silently pry out an actual answer, a confession of sorts.

“‘M not sure when Viola’s going to get home…”

Viola’s name was the last thing Henryk wanted to hear coming out of Gascoigne’s mouth. All the moments they had shared since last night had led up to this, all the moments they had shared since the moment they saw each other had led up to this, and Henryk realized it was starting to resemble the way things used to be. There they were, alone together, knife pressed to his partner’s throat, sitting in his lap, no beasts, no pesky wives or daughters or prying eyes. Just the two of them.

Alone.

Henryk wasn’t going to let Viola’s name ruin what he yearned and ached for whenever he slept on Gascoigne’s couch. 

“We’re together now. Forget about her.” 

Gascoigne swallowed. Hard. “That’s easier said than done. I’m not making excuses-”

“Every word coming from your mouth sounds like an excuse right now.”

“ _Let me finish_. I don’t fucking know when she’s getting back. I don’t know how much time we have together, Henryk. Aren’t you nervous about that? Getting caught? We can’t just throw caution to the wind, you know.”

Henryk leaned in close and whispered in his ear, “I don’t care. Let her catch us.”

It was easier to not care, easier to pay attention to how Gascoigne tensed up when Henryk grabbed Gascoigne’s hand and put it on his thigh, dangerously close to his crotch, and Henryk felt an ounce of triumph when Gascoigne seemed to stop caring, too, putting his other hand on Henryk’s side; His fingers dug into Henryk’s bottom two ribs. Hard. The prospect of bruises, marks, evidence that this was happening and that it wasn’t a late-night fantasy or daydream, memories in black and blue and red lines and bite marks. 

Henryk leaned back in for another kiss, palmed at his partner’s crotch and didn’t hesitate to shove his tongue into Gascoigne’s mouth, picking up where they’d left off before, throwing himself back into that sweet headspace where he could pretend Viola didn’t exist. Gascoigne’s mouth tasted the same- bitter, metallic, the smell of raw meat and blood, sweet in a distant way- for anyone else it would _just_ be bearable, but for Henryk it was addicting, something that was easy to yearn for and crave. He adjusted himself to get close to Gascoigne, lifting his leg and moving so he was straddling his partner’s lap rather than just his one thigh. Hips stretching, a bit painful, and the beginnings of a burning, exhausting sensation in his legs from holding himself up for so long- Henryk ignored it; it was easy to ignore it when there were more important things to deal with. 

He ground his palm against Gascoigne harder, and when he felt Gascoigne’s hand move from his thigh to his crotch he jolted, pressing harder into his partner again, kissing him deeper.

There was a movement Henryk noticed out of the corner of his eye- he felt Gascoigne move his hand from Henryk's side and start to undo his trousers, hasty and urgent, and the hint of warmth in Henryk's guts increased to nothing less than an overbearing need, an ache. But it felt rushed- not a bad thing, but he’d waited too long to _just_ let Gascoigne have a quick fuck and be done with him again. He'd draw this out for as long as he damn well pleased. 

He remembered the knife, suddenly, and pressed it against Gascoigne's throat again, still kissing him, before pulling back again, a trail of spit briefly between their mouths like spider silk before it broke. And _oh_ , what a lovely sight, Gascoigne's lips red and barely shining with spit from fervent kissing, his face flushed, mouth barely open and breathing heavily, open just enough for Henryk to barely see the whites of his teeth. The look of disappointment from Henryk pulling away paired with the panic of a blade against his throat was like a red bow on top. 

“Slow down, you brute. We have time. Relax.”

Keeping his knife poised at Gascoigne's throat, Henryk leaned back in, avoiding Gascoigne's lips altogether and mouthing at his throat instead. His teeth and tongue dragged across his partner’s neck, tasting salt and skin and the blood running through his veins, dragging his tongue up further to the side of Gascoigne's face. He smelled strongly of _something_ , and Henryk was too busy familiarizing himself with Gascoigne again to figure out what was so pungent until his tongue found its way over one of the cuts from earlier.

He tasted metal, tasted salt, and all of a sudden Henryk’s eyes went from half-lidded to wide open, nostrils flooding with the smell of blood and his hand acting on its own, starting forward and cutting into Gascoigne’s throat- shallow but still enough to cause alarm. Why was he acting blood drunk? On barely a drop of blood, as if he had no control? It must have been Gascoigne’s blood, must have been more potent or something like that.

Or maybe it was because _Gascoigne’s_ blood had been under his tongue. 

A hiss of pain and a hand grabbing at him was enough to break Henryk out of his haze.

“Fuck, sorry. My hand slipped- I didn’t mean to- It was a reflex, I swear, I would never mean to-”

A litany of half-sincere, half-lied apologies writhed out of Henryk’s mouth, none of them getting completed before he started a new one. The taste of metal faded with every word. The blade had been taken away from Gascoigne’s throat, and Gascoigne no longer had to crane his neck back. He was free to move, apart from Henryk sitting in his lap, but that was barely enough to hinder him- Gascoigne’s size and strength was more than enough to easily shove Henryk away.

But he hadn’t, and he wouldn’t, not even as Henryk decided to move his attention back to Gascoigne’s neck, kissing and sucking next to the gash. The smell of blood filled Henryk’s nostrils again, and it was shameful how his mouth watered- surely “accidentally” getting some fresh blood on his lips would go unnoticed. 

He felt the warm liquid grace his lips, and his tongue darted out to lick it off them; the first taste of fresh blood was nothing short of intoxicating. He needed more. But would Gascoigne be alright with that? Letting Henryk lap at his wounds like an animal? He felt his partner come back forward, groaning with relief at not having to hold his neck back anymore, and Henryk went back to mouthing around the wound. Gascoigne’s free hand- his right hand- came to rest at the back of Henryk’s neck, settling into place with a firm grip, and Henryk almost melted at the physical affection. 

He could probably bring his mouth over Gascoigne’s wound again, he realized, and when his tongue passed over it he felt his partner’s grip on his neck tighten and heard a sharp intake of breath. He felt Gascoigne swallow again, felt his partner’s chin settle on top of his head and felt Gascoigne’s heavy breathing on his hair.

“Do that again.” His voice was barely more than a husky growl, spoken into the top of Henryk’s head. He would have pulled back if Gascoigne wasn’t holding him there.

He considered playing dumb, but if Gascoigne was asking Henryk to do it again he must have liked it, right? His tongue darted out again, over the very end of the cut, and he felt Gascoigne’s groan of approval before he heard it. Air passing through his partner’s lungs and innerworkings before clambering up his throat and producing a low sound, with Henryk feeling the barely-there vibrations on the edge of his lips and tongue. Gascoigne’s grip on the back of Henryk’s neck tightened, shoving Henryk against him, and he took that as an invitation to lave at Gascoigne’s wound, blood so thick it coated his throat and made him feel like he would choke or drown. Henryk’s tongue was completely flat against Gascoigne’s neck, and he moved in until their bodies were flush against one another, still eagerly grinding his palm into Gascoigne’s crotch, inadvertently grinding it against himself as well. 

His jaw was getting tired from working at Gascoigne's cut for so long, but the way his partner clutched at him, pulled him in further and held him as if he were a savior, was enough to give Henryk the incentive to dig his tongue in deeper. His tongue worked into the center of the cut, the deepest part, as if he was trying to open it further and draw out more blood- and Henryk was, since the noises he'd wrenched out of Gascoigne with this morbid sort of oral sex, like a pain cry and moan of his name, seemed like it was enough to make Henryk come untouched. He’d tasted beast’s blood before. They both had, actually- during hunts when it would splatter onto their faces or into their mouths, and Gascoigne’s blood almost tasted the same. Rotten, sweet, thick metallic liquid that was disgusting yet addicting, with a warm underlying flavor of organ meat and salt. A cautious balance between beast and human. 

And Henryk wanted more.

He grabbed Gascoigne’s wrist with his hand that had been between them, detaching himself from his neck for just long enough to pant out “Get these undone. Now.”, shoving Gascoigne’s hand half over his belt and half over his crotch. His voice sounded sticky from the blood cloying to his tongue and throat.

_I probably look like a proper mess_ , Henryk thought, and he wasn’t wrong- he was panting like a dog, his mouth and chin were smeared with crimson, his pupils blown out, his hair unkempt. He wasn’t going to give Gascoigne enough time to get a good look at how disheveled he was- within the moment he was done talking Henryk latched back onto Gascoigne’s neck, making sure to bite and suck at the skin enough to leave an obvious bruise. Viola wouldn’t like that; she’d assume Gascoigne was unfaithful, scream accusations, threaten to leave and take the girls with her. 

And Henryk wasn’t about to risk putting his partner through that, no matter how much he wanted to leave Gascoigne covered in marks. Maybe there was a compromise of sorts...

He felt Gascoigne fumbling with his belt, large fingers occasionally brushing over Henryk’s still-clothed and hard cock, making him shudder in spite of the thick, rough fabric of his trousers. Henryk pulled away again- he had to catch his breath, and although he wasn't eager to stop, his jaw was tired. He sat there for a while, panting, face covered in blood and listening- no, _feeling-_ Gascoigne make quick work of his trousers. The cut that Henryk had been slipping his tongue into had slowed its bleeding, and Henryk was content to use his tongue to trace lazy circles over where he had been sucking on Gascoigne’s neck, sometimes lapping at what little blood trickled out of the wound. It was peaceful, almost, no fevered kissing or delving into wounds or snarling at each other, a small respite in their sort-of reunion.

It was, until Henryk bit down on Gascoigne’s neck. _Hard_.

The first thing Henryk felt was blood in his mouth, blooming warmth over his tongue, and the second thing he felt was Gascoigne ripping him away from his neck. 

“What’re ya doing!? Trying to kill me?”

“Leaving a bite mark.”

Gascoigne looked confused.

“So _she_ won’t suspect anything. Say it’s from a beast.” It was obvious that ‘she’ was Viola, and it was obvious that Henryk wanted to keep her name out of his partner’s mouth. 

As much as Henryk wanted to leave every sort of mark on every part of Gascoigne, it wasn’t realistic. Viola would notice, of course she would; Ideally she would ignore it, assume it was from a beast or simply wouldn’t care if her husband was having an affair. There were wives like that, content with being left alone, married out of convenience to get their family off their back or for money.

But Viola was _not_ one of those wives. It was clear in the way she dressed, how she fretted over her husband, the way she held him when he came back from hunts- If Henryk had to choose one word to describe her, he would choose devoted. Any sign of an affair would ruin her, the wife who sat in the window with her beloved music box until the earliest hours of the morning, patiently waiting for her beau to come home in one piece. 

Henryk yearned for Gascoigne with every fiber of his being, but the thought of breaking Viola’s heart the same way she had unknowingly broken his made him feel ill. 

Henryk ran his tongue over his teeth, bone-hard and off-white valleys, tinted pink from blood, and was surprised when his tongue managed to pull up something soft from between his teeth. He fretted with it a bit, trying to bite into it with his front teeth, and when he did Henryk felt a lecherous jolt of arousal- it was flesh or skin. That was in his mouth, between his teeth, and from _Gascoigne_ of all people. It seemed intimate, in a way, even if it was unintentional- what was more loving than having your partner offer their flesh to you and taking it? 

And would it be so bad to try and share that intimacy? Jaw tired, tongue heavy and coated with blood, Henryk went back in for another kiss. Open-mouthed and sloppy, he felt Gascoigne shudder a bit at the taste of his own blood, but Henryk didn’t mind- he just ran his tongue over Gascoigne’s teeth. Had his canines always been so long? So sharp? Suddenly Henryk wanted to be bitten- it was only fair, after all. Gascoigne deserved to swallow a piece of him as well. 

He moaned into his partner’s mouth when he felt Gascoigne finally, finally, free his cock from his trousers and wrap a few fingers around the base. A rush of need followed his partner’s touch, a basic instinct to move with him in tandem, unconsciously bucking his hips into Gascoigne’s fist for relief-

And Henryk feeling like he was ready to _cry_ when Gascoigne released him too suddenly and too soon. Caught up in a flood of emotions and arousal and blood-smell to the point where he barely noticed his partner grabbing under his thighs and adjusting his grip until, of course, Gascoigne had brought the two of them up, standing from where he was seated and bringing Henryk with him.

“You’re a bit of an idiot if you think I’m going to fuck you in there.”

God, was getting picked up always such a turn-on for him? Getting manhandled and thrown around? Gascoigne’s voice wasn’t soft in Henryk’s ear but it wasn’t harsh either, spoken as he carried Henryk out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.

“You deserve- duck a bit, watch the doorframe- better than that. I think we’ll both die from the heat if we stay there any longer.”

Henryk didn’t know how to respond to that, and he never thought he _would_ be able to respond to that. The fact that Gascoigne saw him, for just a moment, as more than a quick fuck for stress-relief or a hunting partner that he stopped caring about once a hunt was over. The fact that Gascoigne cared about him. _Cared_. Felt that he deserved something nice even if he hadn’t really done anything to deserve it- sure, he did give the man what amounted to a free shave, but everything that happened once that was over basically negated what good he’s done.

That voice in the back of his head chimed in again- _care, not love._

He pushed it aside, responding with a simple and content “mhm” as Gascoigne sat him down on the bed, and got on with removing the rest of his clothes. 

\---------

 

Henryk had forgotten how nice it was to lay next to Gascoigne, naked or otherwise, holding hands. It just felt right, staring at the ceiling or each other, either breathing softly or speaking in hushed tones.

The room was warm but he could still feel the sweat cooling on his body, hear Gascoigne’s breathing, smell his scent, remember the taste of his skin under his tongue- and if he rolled his head to the side, he’d see him, lying next to him among tangled sheets with blood drying on his skin, chest rising with his breath, looking as handsome and lovely as ever.

Henryk rolled over lazily, ignoring the slight protest of his bones, and made his way over to Gascoigne. Slowly, deliberately, he laid his head on his partner’s chest. He heard a heartbeat, strong, and some odd noise that filled Henryk with dread. 

It was painfully obvious what _it_ was, creeping through Gascoigne and picking away at him. He felt his partner shifting, his arm moving, and Henryk worried he would be shoved away- maybe Gascoigne knew, too, and didn’t want Henryk to find out or be so close to something so upsetting. Whatever it was, Henryk braced himself, not wanting to lose this contact even if it meant saving the world, ready to lie there and have the worst of his fears manifested inches below him. He didn’t care about what it was, the ugliness, the inevitability, how it scared him to death, and as he felt Gascoigne get closer to touching him he was tempted to shout about how he didn’t mind-

Gascoigne’s hand moved to card through his hair, and for what had to be the third time that day, Henryk almost cried.

Would it be so bad to stay here? To forget Viola, the beasts, the plague that swarmed through his partner’s chest as they sat there? It was nice, being held like this, even if it was a bit too warm for his liking. It was nice to forget things in Gascoigne’s arms, and not even the commotion of a carriage drawing up outside could pull him from it-

Oh. A carriage. Viola. The girls.

Back so soon. Too soon.

_Please_ , he begged, _let it be someone else. Let me stay with him for as long as he will let me._

Henryk heard footsteps on the cobbles outside, Viola’s voice muffled through the closed window, Gascoigne rumbling “we have to get up, sorry,” stirring under him and sitting up before giving him a somber look. It was over. Their time alone had come to an unwelcome end.

Finding his clothes from where they’d been strewn on the floor was like searching for a body. Getting dressed was like declaring everything dead, minus the ceremony, minus the funeral clothes and church garbs but with tears still welling in sad old eyes. Suddenly Henryk wished he could have marked up Gascoigne more. 

Not even a second after slipping into his trousers, Henryk heard the unwelcome creak of the front door followed by two small pairs of feet thudding across the downstairs floor, accompanied by a larger and far more tired pair of feet. Every sound the girls and Viola made were muffled through the flooring and walls and yet it rang like funeral bells in his ears. Henryk dragged his feet to the bedroom door, put two fingers to the doorknob, and glanced back at Gascoigne again. Waiting to be found in another man’s bedroom with the door closed was _not_ the brightest idea. As much as it pained him to leave the space they shared, no matter how briefly, getting caught spelled disaster for both of them, and Henryk knew he would never forgive himself if he hurt Gascoigne so badly. The man deserved the life he had made for however long he would have it.

Henryk had no right to barge in and ruin things. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t steal a few looks when no one was with them.

The slope of Gascoigne’s back, muscles shifting as he somehow found a shirt on the floor to throw on, the scratches and bites that Henryk left on him. Art. All of it. And would Gascoigne still look like this in a few months’ time? Would whatever Henryk heard pounding in his chest consume him by then? 

He hoped not. He really, really hoped not. 

Ripping his eyes away so he could focus on the commotion downstairs, Henryk opened the door- louder, clearer voices, young and energetic, older and tired. He hadn’t even set foot in the hall before hearing one of the girls exclaim “Grandpa’s here too!”, and he couldn’t stop a smile from spreading across his face. He leaned back, looked over his shoulder at Gascoigne again.

“Come on. Welcome your wife home. Take the girls from her so she can rest.”

Henryk just really didn’t want to go downstairs alone. He started down the hall as Gascoigne grumbled a reply, feeling relieved when he heard heavy footsteps follow behind his lighter gait. Down the steps, twelve of them, and at the very bottom they were greeted by the girls swarming about their legs; Henryk didn’t hesitate in picking up the younger for a quick kiss on the cheek as a greeting, holding her as he turned to face Viola’s tired smile. She always looked so sweet and loving, her eyes lighting up as she looked to Gascoigne. Her brooch stuck out like a bloodstain on her light blue clothing, as lovely as ever, impossible to tear your eyes from.

“Henryk, dear, always a pleasure- I’m sorry I wasn’t here to welcome you last night. My parents, they love the girls, and I haven’t seen them in so long. They’ve been pestering me nonstop about it, too, and-” “Don’t apologize. You would have been asleep by the time we came back last night.”

“Could I make you breakfast, at the very least?”

Henryk shook his head. “I was about to leave when you walked in. I don’t need anything.”

“At least let me…” she trailed off.

“A place to sleep is more than enough.” He looked over at Gascoigne. “Your husband took _quite_ good care of me.”

He heard a cough from his partner, could _feel_ the glare of caution on the back of his skull as he set the younger of the girls down beside him. 

“I’d love to stay, but I have to go. Thank you again.”

She wasn’t looking at Henryk anymore, and as he followed her gaze he saw what had captured her attention so well: the wound on Gascoigne’s throat, the bite around it.

“What- What’s this from? Are you alright?” Her fingertips brushed across his throat, gentle, loving. “Darling, what happened? Does it still hurt?”

“Beast. It’s fine, I’m fine, Henryk took care of it.”

Viola held her husband’s face in her hands, small and soft, leaning in and bringing him down until their foreheads touched. “I’m glad you’re safe,” she whispered, giving him a quick peck before holding him. Her arms wrapped around him, his arms wrapped around her, almost engulfing her with how huge he was.

All in full view of Henryk.

He started to leave, not wanting to see their display anymore, slipping back into his boots and gathering his things from where they’d been left last night.

“At least let me take you outside.”

It was Gascoigne, starting to pull away from Viola, brushing past Henryk to open the door. 

“Thank you again, Viola. Tell the girls I’ll be back soon.” And with that the two men stepped out, Gascoigne guiding Henryk to where they couldn’t be seen from inside. They stood across from each other for a moment, and Henryk was about to speak, ask what was so important that had to be discussed in private, before Gascoigne held him and engulfed him the same way he’d held Viola not even a minute prior. 

It was _nice_ , being held so completely, Gascoigne’s bulk making him feel protected and warm. Henryk buried his head into his partner’s chest, heard his heartbeat and felt him breathe, did his best to wrap his arms around Gascoigne’s massive frame, took in his scent, didn’t try to pull back or say anything to ruin the moment- all he desired was to stand there for as long as they could, without speaking, the only interruption being the occasional rock back and forth. Gascoigne gave Henryk a quick kiss on the neck, moving his mouth to his ear and asking an innocent question that made Henryk’s chest tighten.

“When can I see you again?”

A simple answer. “When we hunt again. So tonig-”

“Not like that. You know what I mean.”

Oh. _Oh_. 

“I’m not sure about that.” _I wish I was_ , he wanted to add.

He heard Gascoigne swallow next to his ear. “Well, find out. And tell me. Soon. Please, Henryk.”

“I promise.”

They stood there a while more before separating. Gascoigne had an expression that Henryk couldn't quite read- sadness? Disappointment? Longing? Something like that.

“There's no rules saying we can't do anything during a hunt.”

“I'd rather not get caught by a beast with my pants down, thank you very much.”

There was a bit more after Gascoigne had said that; awkwardly standing about, wanting to say something to break the silence but not being able to bring themselves to do it, looking at anything but each other, hands in pockets, fussing with clothes, anything so Henryk didn’t have to go home and so Gascoigne didn’t have to go inside. There was the shared knowledge that they would see each other again for a hunt soon, but it still hurt Henryk a bit to meet his partner’s eyes and say “I have to go.” 

And that was the end of that, as he reached in to give Gascoigne’s hand a quick squeeze before turning and leaving. Someone always had to leave first. No room for further conversation. No possible way for Gascoigne to see the barely-there pinpricks of tears starting to well. 

It wasn’t until a few seconds after he heard the front door close behind him that Henryk looked back at the house, in through the window. The glass always muddled what went on inside- it looked blobby, people reduced to shifting shapes, but it was obvious what was happening when the smaller blue droplet made its way towards the larger splotch. Closer and closer and closer until they were one shape instead of two. Watching it this way almost hurt more than watching them inside. Almost.

There was no point in staying around anymore. No reason to linger. It didn’t take much for Henryk to check over his things- had he forgotten something?- and continue homewards, nothing to accompany him but the sound of boots on the streets and an ache in his chest that had become far too familiar since last night. 

He’d see Gascoigne again soon enough.

**Author's Note:**

> omfg this took so long im so sorry @ everyone who voted in my twit poll all those months ago... I hope this was worth it aaaaa.  
> I'm so tempted to write a version with an actual, yknow, SEX SCENE but I just had to get this out one way or another. pls forgive me. I'm sorry if my writing style changes a lot. I came back to this after MONTHS of just... leaving it in my docs. These gay old men tug at my heartstrings and I love this pairing to death, they deserve more content. I felt like I had some kind of obligation to finish this.  
> You can view the word "Partner" however you want. ;)


End file.
